Gearhead
by Mug of Doodles
Summary: Title is irrelevant, like most. Oblio wants to leave, Mo wont let him. MOblio.


**I remember a looong time ago RaggedySam told me that she liked MOblio. Im not even sure, what is that. This is a quick clusterfuck of words having to do with that. Mo's an artfag just like Obi. Slight OOC, I think. This is a horribad gift, but its a random gift for her. If she wants it.  
>Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in whatever this is, they belong to Harmonix.<strong>

Numbing hands gripped the handles with purpose, the man leading the bike away from the figure interrogating him. Boots slipped over the black ice covering virtually every inch of the streets, but his resolve didn't falter, at least not yet. The season was well into deep winter, Mo begged him to stay until _at least_ late spring, as he always did— that way he didn't slide and crash, but by then their differences had been settled. It would be too late, Oblio was over the argument he kindled, and then he'd pry for another excuse to slip away into the darkness. Any fight that was potentially fatal to their relationship was almost always started by Oblio. The situation was always Oblio wanting to leave—fearful of how close he was with the male B-boy, but Mo was simply too damn stubborn and in love to let him go.

A darker body hounded the older male, wearing much less clothing than him—having slinked away from their bed in a rush to catch his lover. Oblio wondered if Mo knew that at _any_ given moment he'd be able to cut his losses, hop on his bike, and never look back. The way the skilled powerhouse stared him down when he turned to see if he was still following let him know that Mo was more than aware of this fact.  
>"So ya were jus' gonna leave? No goodbyes? Nothin'?" Mo questioned.<br>A cold breeze blew by, causing his teeth to chatter. He wrapped his hoodie tighter around his body. The zipper was broken but he kept it as one of those 'I can still wear it around the house' type deals, and since he fell asleep in it the battered piece of shit would have to do.

"Yes." His voice was devoid of any emotions, though his heart wasn't, and Oblio resisted turning to face him again. Tired arms never stopped pulling that increasingly heavy bike alongside him; why couldn't he hop on it already?

_It was such a fucking burden._

"Why?" Mo's voice cracked and the poet heard the change in tone, visibly wincing as he did. It wasn't as if amber orbs would see him with his back turned anyways, but at that moment, Oblio realized that _he_ was exactly why he couldn't ride off, just yet.  
>"I have decided that this is what I need to do," he explained simply.<br>Pink slippers froze, no longer shuffling beside him and he thought he finally rid himself of the downrocker until padded feet were heard slapping against pavement once more.  
>"Is it what'cha <em>want<em> though?"

Oblio hated hearing Mo this way—so timid and desperate, at least outside of the bedroom. It wasn't him at all. He was the promoter, the scout, and always ready to party—quite the opposite of the punk. Mo was the first to speak with Oblio, having an odd knack for knowing everybody in the city whether or not the hung around for very long, and surprised him with his interest in poetry. Bashful as ever, despite his social standing, Mo approached him one night after both had enough of their buddies, mostly Mo's friends, puking all over the place to MacCoy's odd style of deejaying.

They'd shared their interests, Oblio a bit uninterested until the African American confessed to writing on his spare time. He never claimed to be a professional; it wasn't his dream, but a secret hobby that he sometimes forgot about. After moments of senseless prying, Oblio would never admit it but he was awfully curious, Mo led him back to his apartment, where they spent the next five hours conversing about 'self-expression and the soul visualized through dancing.' Life went on this way for a couple weeks and Oblio found Mo to be the only bearable person, not that he could tolerate much before, and actually looked forward to his chats with the downrocker. It wasn't until the pair stumbled from a cab, lurching every which way while awkwardly leaning against each other for support, that lips finally met.

Biting back the urge to tell Mo that he was being selfish _again_ and smother him in kisses, begging for forgiveness, the Asian stared at the blurring lamppost, "It is what I have always wanted."  
>The B-boy swallowed a dramatic gulp, knots formed in his dry throat, and reached for Oblio's elbow, fingers scratching at the shiny leather in a pitiful way that made the indigo-haired man want pull him closer. "Wha' 'bout DC an' the guys? Wha' 'bout <em>me<em>? _Us_?" He chose then to turn around, hoping his eyes weren't puffy or rimmed red from the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "What about _'us'_?"

Mo unintentionally allowed himself to look vulnerable for a moment, Oblio's words hitting him in the chest. His hood was flopping behind him in the wind but chilly fingers yanked it over his burning eyes, hands yanking the cords to close his fortress and he crossed his arms. "Aight then. Fuck you. I don't want yo' chink ass eitha." He ripped himself from Oblio's tense personal space, the bubble he'd been trying so desperately to invade for the past fifteen or so minutes, and concentrated on going home and screaming into his pillows. The plan was perfect—he'd be crying like a bitch all curled up nice and toasty while being surrounded by a thousand shades of blue that reminded him of Oblio.

Metal dug into the gravel of the street, which faintly registered as the kickstand in the back of a pained mind, and a pair of strong arms wrapped around a thin waist. Mo nearly took back his words, telling him that he still needed his punk ass until Oblio spoke. "I understand that you are…_in pain_, but that racial slur was out of line. Please take it back."  
>Thick lips twisted into an ugly frown. <em>'A slur was the reason he came back?'<em>  
>"Make me," Mo growled, feeling Oblio shake his head into his pity hug. He wasn't one for conflict and he didn't want to stand here with a warm body pressed to his, luring him in again. The older male tried pulling away but Mo gripped his wrists, freezing fingers screaming in protest from the sudden movement, and stated a softer, 'Make me'.<p>

It was at that moment that Oblio sped away from that spot, but not without Mo covered in a thin blanket and settled between his chest and the handlebars. Mo led him up the staircase to his, no, _their_ apartment excitedly, like a child dragging his dog-tired parents out of bed during Christmas. He wasn't sure which he was more ecstatic about: having Oblio chase after him with as much enthusiasm as he or the heat that rushed his face as he opened the door.

Loads of 'I'm sorrys' piled up at the door, along with their soggy coats, the snowflakes melting and absorbing into the dense fabric. Mo and Oblio were tangled into each other, leaving a trail of clothes—the blue-eyed poet's jacket was the first to begin a trail, followed by a flurry of kisses. Heaving gulps of air, both hyperaware of each other's touches, Mo frantically muttered mantras—a series of 'don't leave, man'. A cold hand shot down loose boxers as if to dare him to move, eliciting a surprised gasp from Oblio. The taller male captured the black loop nestled in a pale earlobe between his teeth, running fingertips amid his lover's ribs, the other hand still keeping a steady rhythm. Oblio groaned quietly, stickying Mo's rough hand and leaned in for another scorching kiss.  
>"I will not leave," was panted against the taller male's neck, Oblio's shoulders tense as he spoke the words, his fingers scrabbling against Mo's shoulders in a frantic attempt at finding purchase. Black fingernails dug into dark, bare shoulders and the dancer eagerly hoisted him up, fingers pressing into the dip of his back fiercely until Mo was sure the marks left there matched the color of his hair.<br>"I know, not 'til spring, right?" Mo grunted, bumbling towards the bedroom until they toppled over his skateboard halfway there. Their kiss broke but both sets of hands flew everywhere, taking off whatever they could stick to. "Right."


End file.
